Everything You Wanted
by Small-Wonders
Summary: If you're honest with yourself - which, let's be real here, you are the only person you've ever felt comfortable being truly, completely honest with - you've been in love with Laurel Lance for an absurdly long time. / Or: Tommy and Laurel after the Gambit goes down.


**Warnings: **Non-explicit sex, mild language.

**A/N 1: **Haven't read any of the _Arrow _comics, so this completely ignores them.

* * *

_Everything You Wanted_

_by Small-Wonders / always_a_queen_

* * *

You're not with Laurel when you find out the Queen's Gambit went down.

There's a brunette straddling your lap with her shirt shoved up to her waist. You've got your mouth on her neck, and she's rocking rather pleasantly against your hips when your phone lights up.

Normally, you wouldn't answer it, but the caller ID says _Thea Queen_. Thirteen year old Thea who just got her first cell phone a few weeks ago and who demanded rather unceremoniously that you add her to your address book.

You haven't even had a chance to say hello before she says, "Ollie's missing."

Your heart drops into your stomach, and your blood runs cold.

After you hang up with Thea, your thumb hovers over Laurel's speed dial.

(Oliver is one; Laurel is two; Sarah is three; and Thea is four.)

You want to call Laurel, hear her voice, but you discover that you just _can't_ push the button. If you hear her cry then you will cry, and you really don't want to do that.

Yet.

* * *

You don't see Laurel until Oliver's funeral, which is held only a few weeks after both Queens are declared dead. Neither of her parents bother to show up, so she's alone, wearing this knee-length black dress and sunglasses. Her hair is tied in a bun at the nape of her neck. You move to her casually, slipping your arm around her waist.

Immediately, she angles her body towards you, leaning against you like you're the only thing holding her up. You try not to think about how wonderful it feels because your best friend is dead and you should not feel any emotion but grief.

She doesn't cry, at least not that you can see, but her lower lip quivers and you feel her body trembling.

If you're honest with yourself - which, let's be real here, _you_ are the only person you've ever felt comfortable being truly, completely honest with - you've been in love with Laurel Lance for an absurdly long time.

You aren't sure when it started, only that Laurel is probably the best girl you've ever met and it's to her credit that she chose your best friend because no one else in this life could have ever come close to deserving her. You think you would absolutely hate any other jerk she ended up with, but Oliver is practically your brother and therefore the one exception.

It makes you angry that Oliver's gone, angry that he never fully realized how special Laurel was, angry that he could hurt her like he did. But you've been hiding those emotions with copious amounts of alcohol and a few well-timed wisecracks.

You never could be mad at him for very long anyway. The two of you are - were - always good at getting anything that bothers you out in the open and then making up a few seconds later, generally with peace offerings. Oliver Queen was a lot of things; stupid and impulsive were two of them. You loved him despite all that - or maybe for all that. You're not sure.

Right now it just hurts more to be mad at him than it does to just accept that you miss him.

And you do miss him.

* * *

At the reception, Thea falls apart in your arms. You hold her gently and stroke her hair. You've never had a sister, but _damn_ if you ever did you couldn't possibly love her any more than you already love Thea.

You feel more than see Laurel's eyes on you. You look up, scanning the room for her. Her sunglasses are off and her mascara is smeared around her eyes. She's let her hair down and it curls around her shoulders.

She comes up to you later, to say goodbye, and when you learn that she's planning on calling a taxi, you offer to drive her home. You're fed up with the meaningless condolences and platitudes anyway.

Half of the people here didn't even _know_ Oliver. Not like the two of you did.

When she accepts, you're not surprised. When she invites you in for a glass of wine, you are.

You accept, of course, because why the hell not?

You stop in her doorway, though, abruptly aware of where this could go if you step over that threshold. Ahead of you, Laurel turns, brown curls bouncing around her shoulders. She doesn't smile, but she reaches back to take your hand and pull you into her apartment.

She kisses you first, but you kiss her back because _hey_, you've only loved Laurel Lance since the moment you set eyes on her, and this is an opportunity that might never come again.

It's not a graceful kiss. You don't slant your head quite right, so the two of you bump noses. Actually, you haven't participated in a kiss this uncoordinated since you were a teenager, when Oliver offered you two hundred bucks to kiss Jessica Jones.

You've learned a lot since then, so you place your hands on Laurel's waist, tugging her closer and tilting your head at a better angle. Her response is instantaneous, a low moan against your lips.

When she opens her mouth to deepen the kiss, you can taste her tears. Her fingers wrap around your shirt as she pulls you closer, reaching around you to shut the door.

The two of you twist around, and then you're walking backwards as she pushes at your shoulders, hands sliding beneath your jacket to help you take it off. It hits the floor and her own jacket follows.

Your legs hit the side of the sofa, and you fall into a sitting position on the armrest. Laurel steps between your legs. She doesn't stop kissing you.

You're not exactly sure if there is a best way to grieve the death of your best friend, but you're pretty sure that making out with his girlfriend isn't it. Even though if he'd lived Laurel would have broken up with him.

That seems almost worse.

Suddenly she's crying and you aren't kissing anymore so much as you're holding onto her for dear life and wishing like crazy that your eyes weren't also so damn moist. Laurel hides her face in your shirt and chocks back a sob. You rub her back. That seems to make the crying worse.

Words fall from her lips but you don't know what she's saying. One minute it's an apology, then it's a sob, and then it's just Sarah's name. Everything about the situation hurts. You wish you knew how to make it stop.

When the crying subsides a bit, she kisses you again. One of her legs comes up to hook around your hips and draw your bodies closer. Her tears are still falling. Warning bells go off in your head because you really should have stopped before it got to this point, but then you realize that you're crying too.

"We shouldn't - " you start to say, but she cuts you off by raking her nails across your shoulder blades. You hiss at the sensation, but it's a good feeling, completely different from the grief currently strangling you.

"I just...don't want to think right now," she whispers. "Okay?"

And since that is okay, and you'd much rather be numb right along with her, you stand up, gripping her thighs and hoisting her up into your arms. Her legs wrap firmly around your waist and you try to remind yourself that you're good at this.

Thankfully, you're familiar enough with the layout of her apartment to navigate to the bedroom without bumping into anything. You break the kiss, and she buries her face in your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses there. You close your eyes and try not to drop her, try not to feel guilty that it feels so _good_.

You set her on the bed gently. Settling yourself between her thighs, you take your time figuring her out. You've slept with enough girls to learn the very important lesson that the better it is for them, the better it is for you.

And you may have had a _lot_ of sex, but this is the first time that it's been with the girl that you're in love with. That makes all the difference in the world.

She's not, however, in love with _you_, and you try not to think about that as you unhook her bra. You try not to think about it as you work to make her speechless, to help her forget her own name and to just not _hurt_ for a little while.

And for a little bit, with her body beneath yours and the taste of her skin on your tongue, you do. Everything but her blurs into the background of your mind and you settle into this blessed numbness that begins and ends with _Laurel_.

* * *

When you slip out of her bed in the morning, you try not to think about the fact that last night was probably the first and last time you'll sleep with Laurel Lance.

You send her flowers; she never calls.

* * *

The reception after Sarah's funeral is held in this tiny little bar that's barely big enough to hold all of the people Sarah made smile.

You stay hidden in the shadows for a bit, pressing your body up against the wall while you nurse your drink. You always liked Sarah. She knew how to live, and she knew how to laugh. She knew how to make you laugh. Ollie used to tease you about hooking up with her, but you never did. It's like you always knew that if you went there, any chance you had with Laurel would just go out the window.

(Not that you ever had a chance with Laurel, not with Oliver around.)

You think that you'd trade it, all of it, any chance you ever had with the only girl you've ever wanted an actual _relationship_ with, if you could have your best friend back.

Laurel finds you late into the evening. She offers you a beer - which you decline - and then she says, "Take me home."

You're not one to argue, especially when your opponent is Laurel Lance.

You take her to your place, and the two of you have a second bout of mind-blowing post-funeral sex that does absolutely nothing to stunt the crippling guilt wrapping around your heart.

You don't turn on the lights, but even in the dark you have her body all mapped out. You know her so well, remember so much from the first time. Touch her like this and she whimpers; touch her like that and she moans. This makes her fingers clench tightly in your hair; that makes her scream your name.

And it _is_ your name. She hasn't cried out for Oliver, not yet.

You hope she won't. He's already at the forefront of your mind and you can't stand the thought of him being in hers. He's the one you're trying to help her forget; he's the one you yourself are trying to forget.

"This can never happen again," she murmurs between kisses, and you agree out loud despite the fact that you really wouldn't mind this happening again every day for the rest of your life.

She bites your lip and pushes you down on the bed, taking charge with that one action. As you look up at her, you lose all coherent thought because suddenly everything is _Laurel Laurel Laurel_. Her name is on your lips and echoing in your head and in your heart and _dammit_.

Considering it is one of the greatest things in the world, you think love sort of sucks right about now.

* * *

She tries to sneak out after, but you catch her around the waist and drag her back into bed with you, peppering kisses on her shoulders and finding her ticklish spots with the tips of your fingers.

Laurel laughs until her giggles turn into strangled sobs. She curls against your chest and you keep your arms around her. Wrapping her arms around your neck she tips her head up for a kiss, and you oblige, if not altogether happily, then at least comfortingly.

You rub the space between her shoulder blades, letting your touch linger on the contours of her neck and shoulders. You happen to know for a fact that you give awesome backrubs, and that Laurel is a fan of these awesome backrubs. Her moan is lost in the continuation of your kiss, but it's there and you feel absurdly satisfied knowing that there's _something_ you can do to soothe her pain.

"Tommy." She breathes against your mouth. "We shouldn't."

"Why not?" you ask, flashing her a smile. She returns it with sadness in her eyes. Instead of answering, she kisses you again.

You don't need to hear her answer. You already know why.

* * *

You get into a fight with your dad. You're always getting into fights with your dad. This one is nothing new, but before you know it you've pressed her button on your speed dial and she's answering the phone.

You try to hide how upset you are behind a quick joke and a few casually flirting lines, but she catches on immediately and presses you to tell her what's wrong.

"Nothing," you say, words about your dad and Oliver's dad and how much you miss both of them caught in your throat. "Just having a really bad day."

Laurel shows up at your door later that night with a bottle of wine, a bag of your favorite takeout and a sad expression on her face.

She shrugs, apparently at a loss to explain why she's on your doorstep, and that's the moment that you step forward and kiss her.

* * *

After, you eat cold sweet-and-sour chicken lying on the duvet spread out across the floor of your living room. She's wearing your shirt, and you're not sure if you can ever wear it again now that it will forever remind you of this moment.

She holds your head in her lap and runs her fingers through your hair, soothing and gentle. You want to tell her everything. Every vulnerable bit of your soul that you hide with banter and wit.

You want to tell her that she is the beauty in every poem and the perfection that every artist tries to capture. You're not a romantic but you could be - _for her_. You would be everything for her if you could.

But this moment feels stolen and too burdened with heartache for that. Laurel Lance is everything you've ever wanted and everything you'll never get to have.

So you push it all down, set it all aside. She thinks what the two of you have is nothing more than a fling, and so you let her.

* * *

You keep looking out for her because it's what Oliver would have wanted. You stop by her office; you take her out to lunch.

But you don't sleep with her anymore. You don't kiss her any more.

She's not yours, and she has no desire to be. You can respect that.

Besides, there are plenty of other girls to drown your sorrows with, and well, if she sees you with them in the tabloids, what did she expect? She knew who you were when she hopped into bed with you.

And yet, even as the years go by, those are nights that you never forget. More than one girl has heard you whisper Laurel's name.

* * *

You step into the foyer of the Queen mansion and see him standing there with his back to you.

Tears prick at your eyes. _God, but you've missed him. _Still, you've always been better at cracking jokes than you've ever been at crying, so you swallow the frog in your throat.

"What did I tell you?" you ask. "Yachts suck."

* * *

_end_.


End file.
